


Your Breath, My Skin

by LavenderProse



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Handwaving, M/M, Magical Realism, Vicchan Lives, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9934994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: "What did you do?" Yuuri mutters as Viktor takes off his coat and scarf.Viktor's mouth moves soundlessly for a moment, then gestures for a pencil and pad. Yuuri yanks his way through several drawers and finally finds a grocery list pad and an old charcoal. He throws them in Viktor's direction and shuffles into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. Viktor tugs on his sleeve eventually, like a timid child, and Yuuri turns to see what he's written."A succubus?" Yuuri demands, teeth going on edge. "Viktor, oh my God. What did youdo?"Or: Viktor needs to stop finding new and creative ways to get himself hexed. Yuuri is Suffering.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I want you all to know that I completely made up the rules of the magic Yuuri uses. It's VERY LOOSELY based on what little I've learned of magick from my acquaintanceship with a few people who have a passing knowledge of Wicca. This isn't meant to reflect any real practices by white witches, or the actual lore surrounding any particular culture. This is just me playing with world building! I hope everyone can find something they enjoy about it!

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

"Oh my God," Yuuri hisses into his pillow. It's three o'clock in the morning. He knows because he _just got in bed_. Literally, his head had hit the pillow not five minutes ago. There is a woman in Dearborn who had come to him early in the evening, begging him to make her a protection spell because of her violent ex-husband; Yuuri got to work then and here, sewing together a satchel of cotton with silk thread and stuffing it with sage and small black river stones. He spent hours casting protection over each individual element of the spell, and then sitting in the casting circle with Vicchan in his lap, using the calm energy of his familiar to enhance his own casting. He mustered all of his available power until the bag _glowed_ , then finally gave it to Vicchan to deliver.

Vicchan hasn't even returned yet. That's how long it's been since Yuuri finally finished the spell.

He wants—really, _really_ wants—to ignore the person banging on the door, but he knows he can't. When he took up here as the local witch, when he left his mother and found himself in America where industry and development has weeded out witches and left giant swaths of areas unprotected, he promised both himself and the people he now served that he would never turn anyone from his door.

Turning someone from his door has never been so tempting as right now.

"I'm coming," Yuuri whimpers into his pillow. He starts the process of kicking his blankets off. The banging on the door continues and Yuuri groans, "I am _coming_ ," as he presses himself off the bed. He stumbles out of bed and to the door, finally opening it.

Yuuri's eyes roll so hard they almost get stuck in the back of his head. "Viktor."

Tall, handsome and Russian gives a sheepish smile.

"Did you know that it's three o'clock in the morning?" Yuuri asks, standing aside to let Viktor in. He keeps hoping that Viktor will stop accidentally coming upon new and creative ways to get himself cursed and hexed, but that time doesn't seem to be coming soon. It's been months since Yuuri moved into this building, and months of Viktor showing up on his doorstep at inconvenient hours with unpleasant things wrong with him.

Yuuri figures out pretty quickly what it is this time when Viktor doesn't immediately start up with his typical stream-of-consciousness type blathering as soon as he scuttles in the door.

"What did you do?" Yuuri mutters as Viktor takes off his coat and scarf.

Viktor's mouth moves soundlessly for a moment, then gestures for a pencil and pad. Yuuri yanks his way through several drawers and finally finds a grocery list pad and an old charcoal. He throws them in Viktor's direction and shuffles into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. Viktor tugs on his sleeve eventually, like a timid child, and Yuuri turns to see what he's written.

"A _succubus_?" Yuuri demands, teeth going on edge. "Viktor, oh my God. What did you _do_?"

More soundless babbling. It would be almost funny, if it weren't for the hour and the fact that Viktor's apparently managed to piss off a _succubus._

"Okay, okay, stop," Yuuri waves a hand, turning back to the counter. "I can't understand you. You're lucky you still have your _skin_ , Viktor. My God." He scoops some tea into a pair of teacups and leaves them and kettle for a moment to return to the main room. He lights candles and casts his circle, wondering where Vicchan is. The residual magic of earlier still remains, so his circle comes to life easily. Kneeling there with his head down and his magic swirling around him like a warm blanket, he almost falls asleep.

The kettle goes off. It lets out a whoop before Viktor removes it from the heat and fills the teacups. Yuuri jumps, head flying up, and watches Viktor shuffle towards him.

"Sit down with me," Yuuri mumbles. He sets his cup by his knee and holds out a hand for Viktor's. Viktor hands it to him so that he can take off his shoes and step into the circle. He settles facing Yuuri, echoing his pose except where he's crosslegged instead of kneeling; his hands are in his lap, his shoulders are relaxed. He's at ease in Yuuri's circle. Yuuri's magic reacts to him by shifting ever so slightly, twirling playfully around his hair and the loose cotton clothes he's wearing. Viktor smiles at it the same way he does Vicchan when he curls in his lap. Yuuri wonders if Viktor knows enough about witches to know their magic is not just so welcoming to everyone; that their familiars are not usually so affectionate to others.

Yuuri puts his hands to Viktor's head, uses his fingers at Viktor's jaw to turn his face up and then pulls his thumbs down along Viktor's throat. Viktor's apple bobs against the pads of his thumbs as he swallows. Yuuri is never anything but professional in working with a client—and Viktor is technically a client, even though he spends what must be almost all of his free time lounging around on Yuuri's couch, watching Yuuri stir potions and cast spells, and drinking Yuuri's herbal teas—but he can't deny the delight he gets from touching Viktor in this way; tenderly, the way a lover might.

"Where's Makkachin?" Yuuri murmurs, just to give Viktor something to think about as he pushes magic through his hands and into Viktor's skin. He knows it can be an uncomfortable experience for some people; he also knows that it might be awkward for Viktor, to have him inches from his face like this.

Viktor points towards the ceiling, and Yuuri understands it to mean that Makkachin is back in Viktor's apartment, which is indeed directly over Yuuri's. The day they met, it was because Yuuri paid a visit to Viktor's apartment to demand he cease stomping on their shared floor/ceiling, only to discover Viktor attempting to stop a gnome ruining his apartment. Viktor, indeed, didn't even realize he had a white witch living below him and had resolved to attempt removing the creature by force. Yuuri has yet to figure out how Viktor pissed off a gnome. Or, indeed, where he found a gnome to piss off in the middle of the city.

"You could have brought him," Yuuri mumbles. He doesn't know why Viktor didn't. He usually brings Makkachin everywhere with him, especially if where he's going is Yuuri's apartment. He and Vicchan get on like a house on fire.

Viktor shrugs and makes a gesture with his hands folded beside his head.

"Ah, you didn't want to wake him." Yuuri removes his thumbs from Viktor's throat, rolls onto his feet and goes to the window. One of the reasons he chose this apartment was the large bay window in the front room of every unit. It has a window seat, and the perfect overhang from which Yuuri hangs herbs. As he pulls a few dried chamomile flowers from their bag, he says, "So let me get this straight—tonight, you met a succubus, pissed her off, and somehow managed to escape both alive _and_ with a curse on you that isn't debilitating or life-threatening? Only you, Viktor." He turns back with the chamomile clutched in his hand, sparing a look for Viktor's sheepish expression as he returns to the circle.

He places the chamomile between them in the circle and cups his hands over it. As he activates the magic in the herb, he feels his hair flutter around his ears—it's getting too long—and hears a scratching at the front door.

"Go let Vicchan in, please," he says to Viktor, not looking up. Viktor's knees disappear from his line of vision, and Yuuri opens his palms to blow his intent over the chamomile, gentle gusts of air from pursed lips like stoking a flame. When Viktor returns, it's with Vicchan's tiny body cradled in his arms—the poor pup is exhausted. Yuuri smiles at him and leans forward to kiss his muzzle. "There's my good boy. Thank you so much. Is she safe?"

Vicchan nods sleepily, ears flopping onto Viktor's knee. Viktor, whose lap he lays in like he belongs there. Viktor, with whom he shares his name.

Yuuri knows better than to believe it all coincidence. Yuuri also knows how it would sound if he tried explaining why to Viktor, who likely doesn't understand the concept of familiars—that this animal is a spirit who Yuuri bonded with in infancy and is now essentially part of him. Not simply a dog, not simply a pet.

"Sleep now," Yuuri says to Vicchan, before returning to the spell. He drops the chamomile into a mortar, where he crushes them up and finally pours them into Viktor's tea. He hands it to Viktor with a command to drink it all, and as he does so reaches just outside the circle to slide open a drawer full of little, neatly-arranged jars of essential oil. He finds the Hyssop oil and uncaps it, seals his thumb over the top and tips it over to get just a blot of oil on his thumb. He spreads it over his own lips.

Viktor sets the empty teacup down and nudges Yuuri's knee to signal he's done with it. Yuuri moves the teacup to the side and brings Viktor forward until he sits in the casting center of Yuuri's circle. Vicchan is still in his lap, now breathing heavily with slumber, but that can only help Yuuri's magic rather than impede it. Viktor's fingers glide kindly and gently through Vicchan's fur as Yuuri tilts his head up towards the ceiling.

"This'll be weird," Yuuri tells him preemptively, "but it's part of the spell. After this, you should have your voice back." He leans forward and lets himself take in a breath, eyes closed and heart pounding deep, then presses his lips to Viktor's neck where the muscle bulges under his ear. Viktor's breaths stutters. Yuuri ignores it, kisses the same place on the opposite side of his head and then, with a final breath to gather his magic and his own nerve, the center of Viktor's throat.

He feels that the spell works even before Viktor grunts and mutters, " _Ow_."

"Sorry," Yuuri snorts, pulling back with satisfaction. "Maybe next time you won't piss off a succubus."

"That was so odd," Viktor mutters, hand going to this throat. His voice seems loud after the moments of quiet. "Like something just—just popped."

"That was the curse breaking," Yuuri mumbles, reaching outside the circle to locate a small vial. He binds the top in twine knitted from hemp and spends the next few minutes braiding it together with a colorful piece of silk string—icy blue, because Yuuri gets his inspiration from predictable places.

"What are you doing now?" Viktor murmurs, now talking quietly in deference to the still-sleeping Vicchan and also, likely enough, the calm and stillness in the room that even he must recognize. Viktor is not a purposefully disruptive person; just a naturally boisterous and happy one.

"Crafting you a protection charm," Yuuri says. "Maybe this way you won't have to keep wasting your time watching me cast spells at three in the morning." He binds off the braid and ties the other end back to the neck of the vial, creating one continuous loop of braid, then takes the cork out and blows air into the vial. His breath travels into it and, like the chamomile before it, fills the vial with his intent; protect him, defend him from evil, let this man carry a bit of my magic with him wherever he may go—

"But I love watching you do those things," Viktor says. "The way you just—use your breath and your body to make things. To do good for people. I've never met someone like you."

Yuuri looks up, feeling his eyebrows make a break for his hairline. "Um. Thank you." There's something strange to the cadence of Viktor's voice that he can't quite put his finger on. "You're—um—very unique too, Viktor." He pushes himself up and goes back to his herbs, bringing the mortar with him. He feels Viktor's eyes on him as he pinches angelica and agrimony into the mortar. Yuuri asks, "How did you piss off the succubus, anyway?" just because he's curious, and also because he's worried that if he doesn't speak now, the silence will become irrevocably awkward and Viktor will finally realize what a true mess of a person Yuuri really is.

"Chris and I went to a club—"

"Why do all of these stories start with Christophe Giacometti?" Yuuri mutters, mostly to himself, wandering back to the circle with the mortar braced against his hip as he begins to crush the herbs. He folds his legs to sit, crosslegged this time like Viktor, and presses the mortar snug into the cradle of his legs. Angelica stalks are a bit harder to crush than chamomile flowers.

"Chris is unusually skilled at getting himself into trouble," Viktor replies. "I think our friendship might be a consequence of that." Yuuri chuckles sleepily. Viktor takes a few moment's pause before he speaks again. "I danced with her and she suggested we go back to her place, and when I turned her down she said some very nasty things to me. Told me that if I couldn't keep lies from coming out of my mouth, she would take my voice and make sure I couldn't tell any more."

" _Viktor_ ," Yuuri mutters, dragging a hand down his face. The more he hears, the more amazed he is that Viktor isn't floating down the Rouge River right now without a single limb still attached. "Why did you dance with her?"

"I _didn't_ ," Viktor whines, sounding distinctly miserable and distinctly like his dog. "She came up and started dancing with me—it wasn't until she touched me that I realized how cold she was, and then it was too late!"

Yuuri sighs to himself, tapping off the pestle and feeling chagrinned. "It's not your fault. It's just—I thought maybe—I don't know what I thought." Yuuri knows that he thought. He was superimposing Viktor onto every person who has ever been unkind to a person when turning them down; every person who'd ever been unkind to Yuuri when turning him down, and somehow ended up identifying with a _succubus_ for a second there. But Viktor is a nice person who would probably be incredibly kind in turning down Yuuri if he, for some reason, suddenly felt the need to absolutely sabotage his own life and confess to the tender feelings he holds for his upstairs neighbor.

"I know it's not your fault," Yuuri says again, feeling properly ashamed now. "You're…handsome and friendly, and that gets taken advantage of. Succubae are—well, they like to pretend that they're immune to the charms of humans, but they turn around and curse any poor man or woman who doesn't react to their charms." Yuuri slides the end of a tiny funnel into the neck of the vial, scoops the herbs out of the mortar and into the funnel.

"She was angry that she couldn't seduce me," Viktor mumbles, shrugging. "I told her that I was flattered, but I wasn't interested. Apparently, she isn't used to being rejected."

"No, succubae usually aren't."

"I told her that I had feelings for someone else," Viktor continues. There it is again—a soft and almost dreamlike quality to his voice. Yuuri looks up slowly and sets down the half-filled vial. Something isn't _right_. He roves his eyes frantically over Viktor, looking for something unusual. He's sitting normally, unconcerned and relaxed. There is nothing physically wrong with him. Yuuri pulls up his magic, cautious, and spins it gently towards Viktor, who says, "Do you want to know who, Yuuri?"

"You don't have to tell me that," Yuuri murmurs uneasily. He unfolds himself and pushes onto his knees, takes Viktor's face and turns his head up towards the light. Finally, as Viktor's eyes are illuminated and Yuuri's magic settles onto his skin, he realizes what's wrong.

There is fear in Viktor's eyes.

"I didn't get rid of the whole thing," Yuuri hisses, breaking away to find—something, he isn't sure what—maybe sage, or a chalcedony crystal, something strong. Vicchan makes a stirring noise, bothered by the frantic energy from Yuuri. He looks up to find Viktor cradling Vicchan tight, looking at once both distressed and unnaturally calm. "Viktor, can you tell me what feels wrong? Or what exactly she said? I can't break the curse if I don't know what it's affecting—"

"I keep almost saying things," Viktor says, and his words get faster and faster with each syllable, like a waterfall flowing directly from his mouth. "Like—like vomit, they keep trying to come up—I don't know how much longer I can keep from saying them. When I told her I had feelings for someone else, she told me I was lying—she thought I was telling her that to get her to go away—she said men couldn't resist her charms, and I got angry and told her that I never have and never will feel for a woman the things she was trying to get me to feel, and then…"

"Viktor, Viktor!" Yuuri takes his face in his hands, forces Viktor's clouded eyes up towards his own. "It'll be okay. Okay? Okay, she's put some kind of—hex on you, it's affecting your ability to filter thoughts. I can break it, but it'll take a minute—just focus on not saying anything you don't want to say. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I know you feel like you do, but you _don't_. The hex will be satisfied as long as you keep talking. Tell me—tell me about Makkachin. Or about—um, you're a figure skater, right? So—so tell me about that…" He throws himself towards his supply drawers.

"The figure skating season is over." Viktor is holding Vicchan under his two front legs like a teddy bear. Vicchan is letting him. Even as Viktor continues blathering, blue eyes dart frantically around the room like he's looking for salvation as sweat gathers at his temples. The metaphor about words coming out like vomit is an incredibly visceral one; one that Yuuri can't stop thinking about as he realizes that Viktor does, indeed, look like a man trying desperately not to be ill. "Yakov and I have started choreographing for next season, but I don't know if it's what I want to do anymore—it's always so boring, just winning and winning, and I know that sounds silly and selfish but I'm a silly and selfish person, Yuuri, I really am—and I don't think someone like me could ever deserve someone like you, someone who dedicates their life to helping people—"

"Stop." Yuuri uses two fingers on one hand to unscrew the top off a bottle of camphor oil as he palms a handful of the agrimony and angelica mixture. He holds the camphor under Viktor's nose. "Inhale. Deep."

Viktor does so. Yuuri waits until his breath evens out before taking the camphor away and recapping it. He slides his fingers through Viktor's hair, tucks the lock that usually sits in front of his left eye behind his ear to get unobstructed eye contact.

"Better?" Yuuri asks. "Can you think a little clearer? Camphor calms."

Viktor licks his lips, clears his throat and slowly murmurs, "I think this hex is trying to get me to say that I'm in love with you."

Yuuri is launched immediately into a state of panic.

He brings the agrimony mixture to his face, blows it from his palm and over Viktor's head and barks, " _Sleep_." Viktor drops to the side like a ton of bricks, slumped half over his own lap and half on the floor. Yuuri makes a sound like an injured bird, something that sounds like a sob. He falls back onto his heels and lets his breath race, running a frantic hand up and down his thigh in a compulsive and repetitive gesture. Vicchan emerges from the cocoon of Viktor's arms and uses his mouth and the strength that a little dog should not possess to straighten him out; rest him so he's comfortable on his side, legs curled instead of folded awkwardly under himself, arm pillowing his head.

"Shit," Yuuri mutters, hand fisting into his pants over his knee. He can feel how crazy his eyes look right now in his temples. " _Shit_."

Vicchan nudges the camphor towards him. Yuuri uncaps it and breathes it heavily into his lungs until he feels the anxiety receding, and the world's edges sharpen. It's past four in the morning now; dawn will break through the windows soon, and the natural surge in his power that comes with twilight will give him the strength he needs after casting for almost six hours straight. There is a headache tugging at his right temple.

There is a small pouch of benzoin in a drawer in a corner. While he waits for the sun to rise above the horizon, he places burners around the circle and lights small pieces of the benzoin to circulate its smoke around the room. The pouch goes back into the drawer, significantly lighter than when it came out. It isn't cheap, but if this hex resisted the original break, it's strong. As the sun rises, the scent of vanilla permeates the air, and he gets to work.

He moves Viktor to the middle of the circle, heart dead center. Vicchan brings him a pillow to put under Viktor's head; Yuuri ignores the way his hair splays out against bright green fabric, a halo around his unbearably handsome face gone relaxed and peaceful with sleep. Yuuri unbuttons his shirt to get access to his chest, and feels horrible about the way he wants to touch the pale expanse of skin there—instead, he takes the last of the agrimony and angelica and spreads it over Viktor's chest and stomach. He doesn't know the exact nature of this hex, not having been there when it was cast—Viktor's recollection of the words the succubus used is likely less than perfect—but if he does this correctly, it'll break the same way no matter what.

Around Viktor's head, Yuuri drops blessed thistle. His magic swells and starts to ripple the air; the herbs stay put even as he sees flicks of black on the periphery of his own vision, his own hair blowing around his ears. He flattens his hands against Viktor's sternum, almost as if he's about to give him CPR. His fingers tingle against Viktor's skin; he focuses on expelling the hex, focuses on envisioning anything impure and unkind rising out of him. _Break this hex; leave him clean._

A sound like water rushes through his ears and he opens his eyes in time to watch a thick, malignant cloud emerge from Viktor's mouth. Watching it, Yuuri feels a horrible rage rise up within him, something strong and heady; something that can't be ignored. Before he can think better of it, he whips magic towards the hex and encapsulates it in a whirlwind of his own making, opens a vial and funnels it in. He corks the vial and watches the hex coalesce into a hard, black mass that looks like coal in the bottom of the vial. He sets it off to the side and finally, exhaustedly, nullifies his circle.

He lets himself relax, lets his magic simmer down and subside until it recedes back into its natural state, a humming against the back of his breastbone and a reassuring press against his wrists where it will wait to be used when he needs it next. He falls back onto his heels, hands on the floor, and breathes. He's so tired.

Vicchan paws at his leg, and Yuuri realizes what he wants when he hears the tapping of Makkachin's claws on the hardwood above his head. He drags himself to his feet and out the door, climbs a flight of stairs and opens Viktor's door. It's locked, but that doesn't quite mean anything to someone who has magic in his veins and Viktor's trust in his heart. Makkachin is by the door, whining for attention.

"Shh," Yuuri whispers, pressing his hand into the fluff on Makkachin's head. "It's fine, Viktor's downstairs. Do you want to come with me?"

Obviously, Makkachin does; he trots out the door ahead of Yuuri, waiting patiently for Yuuri to close the door and lock it again. They descend the stairs again, Makkachin's toes clicking on the wooden stairs. Yuuri can feel himself listing even as he walks; as soon as they get back to his apartment, he sends Makkachin to Viktor and slumps onto his bed, pulling the curtains around it to block out the sun coming in the window. Vicchan hops onto the bed with him as he falls immediately and heavily asleep.

He wakes up later to kitchen noises and the sound of two pairs of dog tags clinking together. He rolls over and pulls back the curtain around his bed. Vicchan and Makkachin are dancing around Viktor, who's stirring a spoon around a cup, probably jam into tea. There is toast on a plate next to his elbow and tangles in his hair. Viktor looks up at the movement of Yuuri's curtain and offers a soft smile.

"Morning," Viktor murmurs, lifting the cup to his lips.

"Is it?" Yuuri mumbles, shoving the curtain further back. It doesn't feel like morning, and Yuuri knows himself to have an accurate internal clock. Witches typically do.

"Uh, no," Viktor chuckles, leaning against the counter with the heel of his hand. His shoulder shifts to drop the neckline of his shirt and reveal his collarbone, pale and beautiful. "It's…more like four in the afternoon."

"I thought it might be," Yuuri mumbles, and slides his legs out of bed. Runs a hand through his hair, combing out some of the tangles. "Um, how do you—how do you feel?"

"Fine." Viktor's eyes track him across the room as he crosses, coming to lean against the archway of the kitchen. He kicked his pants off sometime during the night, and now stands before Viktor in the sweater he fell asleep in worn over black boxer shorts. Viktor's eyes keep veering towards his legs; Yuuri is abruptly reminded of what he said last night, under the effects of the hex. The hex that is still living in the bottom of a flask in his apartment; Yuuri turns back to the living room and brings his circle to life with a hard wave of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Viktor asks, floor creaking as he comes closer. He sets another teacup and a plate with toast down next to Yuuri and steps along the perimeter of the circle to sit on the sofa.

"Payback," Yuuri replies, picking up the flask and a bottle of agrimony oil. He uncorks the flask and drops oil into it, recorks it quickly and shakes the vial. The coal-like solid in the bottom reconstitutes into a thick purple smoke; Yuuri grimaces at it in something like satisfaction. He doesn't _do_ curses and hexes; White Witches don't make a habit of casting them. But casting one isn't the same as using his own magic to send it back to its caster. He looks up at Viktor and says, "Open the window."

Viktor does, and Yuuri uncorks the vial again. The hex is quick to emerge. Yuuri holds up his palm flat, like he's holding it, and tells it, "Find her," before blowing it out towards the window. It billows away like so much smoke, leaving a sulfurous smell in its wake. Yuuri lights incense as he nullifies his circle.

"You sent it back to her?" Viktor says softly, long and slim fingers wrapped tight around his teacup.

"She deserves it," Yuuri mutters. He takes his tea and his toast, jackknifes himself onto the sofa across from Viktor. Their feet almost touch, and Yuuri both craves and dreads the moment when their toes will inevitably brush.

"I never said she didn't," Viktor says, likely surprised at the vitriol in Yuuri's voice.

"I don't want anyone thinking that they can come into this neighborhood and hex the people who live here." He pushes himself onto his knees, leaning forward to brace on the back of the sofa with one hand, the other going to Viktor's knee. "There are rules about this sort of thing. She never should have even spoken to you, and she knows it. I'm the White Witch in this neighborhood; it's my job to make her sorry that she thought she could do that. It's my job to make myself _known_ to her, and I want her to be as scared as you were. You're _protected._ You're _mine._ If she ever touches you again, I'll—" All at once, he realizes what he's doing. He falls back, hands leaving Viktor and curling into the hem of his own shorts. He doesn't quite know what to say, suddenly.

Viktor doesn't either; his apple bobs as he swallows, and Yuuri remembers the feeling of it under his thumb from last night. Remembers kissing Viktor's throat, pressing magic into his skin through his own hands and lips and breath. He wants to cover Viktor in his magic until it pools permanently in his pores.

"Did you mean it?" Yuuri whispers, breakfast forgotten. "What you said last night? The hex came out of your mouth. It was a—a truthtelling hex, wasn't it? Everything you were saying—those were secrets. Things you didn’t want anyone to know. But they were true."

Viktor's eyes turn down into his lap, his jaw tenses. Yuuri stares at the fan of his lashes over his cheeks until he finally nods.

"You're in love with me," Yuuri says quietly.

"How could I not be?" Viktor whispers, bittersweet smile curling onto his lips. "You're…amazing. Everything you do—the way air moves around you, your hair when you cast spells. How it…whips around your head? Your hands. How you breathe…you breathe on mundane, every day herbs and suddenly you can make them do things normal people can't. It's beautiful. You—you're beautiful. Of course I'm in love with you."

Yuuri licks his dry lips. "When you're inside my circle, my magic goes to you."

Viktor smiles. "I know. I—I like it. It's warm."

"It recognizes you," Yuuri says, voice lowering to almost a whisper. "My mother told me that a witch's magic is an extension of their soul. You can hide your thoughts, but you can't hide your feelings—your magic will always reveal what your soul feels." Yuuri spreads his fingers and extends his hand, palm-up. A burst of sweet-smelling magic leaves him and flows towards Viktor and into his hair. The silver locks flutter around his ears. The magic dissipates into the collar of Viktor's shirt, shifting it against his collarbone. Yuuri watches as Viktor's hair settles and says, "It feels how I feel. And it loves you."

The room is so quiet that Yuuri can hear Viktor's breath fill his lungs—even the dogs are quiet, curled together on Yuuri's bed and watching with interest that says they might understand what's happening—or else that Vicchan does, and Makkachin is following his lead. Viktor's hand goes to Yuuri's, which is still extended into the air. He presses them together, fingertips to fingertips and palms to palms. Yuuri curls his fingers down, and Viktor does the same. Their hands look right together.

"Soulmates, then," Viktor whispers, leaning forward so their noses nearly touch.

"If that's what you want to believe," Yuuri replies. He closes his eyes and traces his nose down one side of Viktor's, under and up the other side.

He doesn't see Viktor's smile; rather, he feels it against his own when their mouths press together.

Yuuri makes Viktor a protection charm. Viktor wears it everywhere, and Yuuri watches from the stands of ice rink after ice rink as Viktor kisses it before he skates. It is a vial bound by hemp twine and silk, filled with angelica and agrimony and a lock of hair from the person who Viktor considers to be his protector.

If one were to look into the vial, they would see black strands, like thread, curled amongst the herbs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was based off a prompt someone sent me on Tumblr ("You're the local witch and I've been cursed by a succubus; help"). Chances are, if you go find me on Tumblr under the same username (Lavenderprose) and scream at me for little while, I'll probably write YOU (yes you) something as well!
> 
> Have a good day, lovely readers.


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